


Siege: Fall of Dragonstone

by DragonstoneH



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, House Lannister, Ser Loras screws up the Siege, Siege of Dragonstone, Sieges, So much worldbuilding, Soldier´s Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 07:19:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonstoneH/pseuds/DragonstoneH
Summary: Two thousand men at arms have been sent to take a certain dragon-obsessed castle. Common soldiers sent on campaign against Stannis Baratheon´s home castle, hoping for glory, fearing for death. (Extended from the Siege of Dragonstone to the Battle of Blood)





	1. Chapter 1

Will Lanny had hated every minute in the island of Dragonstone. It may not be as bad as Harrenhal, but in the siege camp outside Dragonstone castle, he felt almost as miserable. The weather had been as foggy, rainy and damp as if Stannis had brought the Stormlands with him and left it there, and the autumn cold made it even worse. And that was without counting the lack of supplies.

The invasion had not been too effective so far. The island had fifteen natural harbours, including the two ports and a strand directly underneath Dragonstone castle which Stannis had used years earlier to take the castle from the Targaryens. Redwyne had sent a squadron of six fast galleys to assault the strand, only to have three sunk by scorpions and trebuchets, fired from the castle; another one scuttled by a rocky outcropping, hidden beneath the water; the fifth boarded by a troop of Stannis´ marines and captured. The last galley had escaped after being set on fire, and afterwards their scouts found a boom chain securing the entrance to the small bay. Thus, Lord Redwyne had finally settled on finding another landing.

The attempt was made on a beach on the northern shore, some four miles away from the mouth of the bay last used, with two squadrons of galleys. The first squadron would disembark their complements of Arbor marines, who would secure a beachhead and let the complements of the second squadron, the Westermen, land and join them. Some seventy or eighty Arbor marines had landed when a force of enemy cavalry appeared from behind a hill, flanking them and riding them down with lance and sword. As the galleys backed out, yet another one of them was set on fire.  

With five galleys lost and two damaged, and a part of his marines dead, Lord Rowan poured over the map again, and chose to land on the port farthest from Dragonstone castle. The town Paxter Redwyne had chosen to disembark the two thousand westermen was the smallest of the two, Stag`s Harbour, with a population of some three thousand people. The town had not gone down without a fight, sinking two of Redwyne´s escort galleys with well-aimed trebuchet shots before the fleet had backed out. Eight trebuchets covered every angle of approach, and Paxter Redwybe knew he could lose a lot, perhaps even a fifth of his fleet, if he tried rushing them. A skiff bearing a peace envoy´s banner was rowed to the harbour, to discuss terms of surrender. They had brought back an old man, the commander of the town´s militia, who had agreed to let their forces through, and as long as the town was left alone. A week was decided as the time before they could land, and when it was done, Lord Paxter Redwyne entered the town with a force of Arbor marines and Westermen.

As Will Lanny had walked the measured, ordered streets of the town Stannis Baratheon had founded sixteen years before, he couldn’t help but remember the sacked towns of the Riverlands. As in the Riverlands, a few dozen people remained, mostly old men, but most of the town was gone. The Westermen advanced out of the town with Lord Rowan, leaving behind sixty marines to secure their supply line. And then the “fun” began.

Will had expected some abandoned villages, but this was too much. Stannis may not have literally scorched the earth on the island of Dragonstone, but he might as well have; the villages were empty, the fields bereft of usable grain, the sheep and goats were nowhere to be seen, no fishing boat was tied on the few fishermen´s settlements lining the few spots where the shore was met by beaches of dark sand instead of cliffs. The people had clearly fled. The island was thirty miles across east to west, and fifteen from north to south, so in a day their scouts had visited every settlement, finding less than a hundred people. The Lannister commander, Ser Tymond of the Lannisport Lannisters, had muttered all the time it was “the First Dornish War all again.” Will had no clue what that meant.

On the larger port, Derlyn, they had found no one at all, the ten thousand inhabitants having vanished into thin air. The Westermen, unnerved but still steadfast, pitched their siege camp in the field before Dragonstone castle´s first gatehouse. Trenches and latrines were dug out, tents set up and guard shifts assigned. Paxter Redwyne then took up a force of Arbor marines and westermen heavy infantry and rode up to the dreary castle´s gate. As they marched up the cobblestone path on the steep hill, Will looked at the enemy defences more attentively; a strong gatehouse protecting a drawbridge across a canyon, twenty-five feet across and falling down almost to sea level. On the opposite cliff stood Dragonstone proper, lodged in the valley between the Dragonmont volcano, on its north side and the island´s tallest mountain, Snowcrown, to the southeast. From the southwest, Will could see the towers overlooking the sea and a keep built into the side of Snowcrown; based on the map the officers had shown them, the castle proper extended into the valley with a pair of concentric walls, fortified gatehouses and well-placed towers. It was a strong and efficient castle, and given Stannis Baratheon´s history with sieges, it was probably very hard to starve out.

 

Fifty yards away from the gate, Redwyne´s heralds hailed the guard with a call of the trumpet, and they advanced under the Faith´s peace banner. A guard´s head appeared behind the merlons, only to be joined by fifteen others, heavy crossbows on their hands. “Talk before I put a bolt through yer eye, ya purple bastard” shouted the lead guard, a bearded man in a burgonet with a yellow feather. Lord Redwyne replied, his “admiral voice” on, “On the name of King Tommen we wish to discuss the terms of your surrender. I must speak with your castellan”.

 A tall man in a similar burgonet, but with golden antlers rivetted to its brow, and wearing a black cloak decorated with golden birds, rose above the battlements, and addressed Redwyne “Paxter, to what do I owe the pleasure of having your grape-stained feet on this dragon-obsessed land? If you came for the cheese and mutton fairs I have bad news for you, the sheep and goats started their winter migration, you know, just like birds!”. Redwyne gave a death stare to a couple of his guards that laughed, then the castellan continued “Maybe you want to capture Stannis Baratheon´s castle? I have even worse news for you, mate, the whole garrison is just itching for a fight. And I mean a proper fight, not just killing your sailors and marines. So please just throw yourselves against this walls, I am losing my patience at having my father´s hall run by some Foote fellow.” He gave a hand signal, and quarrels flew; Redwyne´s horse died under him, struck in the eye, a couple of Arbor marines sprouted fletching in the middle of their faces, a lad from Castamere got a bolt in the neck, just above his cuirass. Will got his shield up in time, the bolt´s steel tip going through the pine wood just two inches away from his eye.

One of the riders, the one with the peace banner, threw it on the ground and pulled Paxter Redwyne onto his horse. On the retreat, two westermen got hit, one dead, the other with his hand torn in half from a bolt. At a hundred yards, another marine fell down, a longbow arrow on the nape of his neck.

Out of range, they slowed down to catch their breath. Will approached the lad with the injured hand, “What is your name, boy?” he asked. “I´m Tybalt, from Greenehill” he half wept, half said. “So you are sworn to the Greenfields?” “To Ser Morgan, the knight of the village. He died to a man with a sun on black on his shield in the Green Fork, so one of the Lannisport Lannisters took us and painted us red. He died in the Blackwater, so I don’t really know who my chief is now…” Will looked at the boy closely, he noticed how bloodshot his eyes were getting. He told the lad “Don’t worry, we´ll finish here quickly, this is no Storm´s End.” He gave the lad a pat on the back and sent him to get his hand looked at by the medics, to the small field hospital in the western edge of the camp. Two maesters, a few surgeons and a couple dozen helpers had been sent with the army, conscripted in King´s Landing. Far too few for a pitched assault, but it seemed Redwyne was hoping to starve them out.

Will walked to the knight´s tents, in hope of pilfering a bite of good food from their cooking pots, but at a glance he found them all well guarded by squires and servants. The servants still included some three hundred peasants Tywin Lannister had pressed into service in the Riverlands, kept almost as baggage. Will didn’t like the state of thraldom they lived in, but if Lord Tywin had decided that, he was not one to question it, even if the lord was dead.

He exchanged a few crude jokes with a pair of squires, got a bowl of onion soup and excused himself, looking for the common tent he shared with fifteen others in Tywin Lannister´s household guard. Close to the command tents, he found what he was looking for. “Where´s the captain, Hill?” he asked the guard patrolling the six tents the household guard used. The guard replied “Went with the Port Lord, Willie. Another thing, you got the third shift, with Jabs.”. Will thanked him and got into the tent. The rest of their gear had been gathered from their packhorses, so Will took his things and claimed a cot. In the tent, Sevens and Ed were throwing dice, Jabs was punching the air, practicing his fighting, Wart was napping, snoring loudly, Miles was examining a large piece of parchment. “Jabs, we got third shift” he told the boxer “where´s everyone else?”. Miles looked up from the parchment and said in his usual monotone “Richard took half of them to scout, Addam took the rest looking for whores. He said he could smell them, I told him it was probably the servants brining the fish for dinner.” Laughing, Will got to cleaning his armour, he had learned from the beginning that Tywin Lannister could punish anyone, and drawing his wrath was extremely foolish, so high standards were still maintained after his death.

His armour, the same as his fellow household guards, was a sort of uniform they shared with Casterly Rock´s garrison, Ser Kevan´s retinue and Queen Cersei´s bodyguards; a t-faced barbute with a lion´s face in low relief and a lion´s mane of golden horsehair, a cuirass and gorget, arm and leg armour, hourglass gauntlets and articulated sabatons, all enamelled in red with golden details, and best known of all, a deep crimson cloak, fastened by a gilded chain. For battle, they wore a shorter cape in the same crimson, secured to the cuirass. For court, they wore tailored doublets and hose, and a surcoat in the Lannister colours. Almost six hundred men had been equipped in the same manner, from Tywin´s pocket.

Will ran his hand across the hole the crossbow bolt had made in his shield. “My Lion lost half his face lads” he told no one in particular. Will bundled his now clean armour in the cot´s corner and left the tent, fastening his sword belt as he strode outside. The captain was probably done by now, after his meeting with the “Port Lord”, Lord Tymond Lannister, young lord of the Lannisport cadet branch, who had inherited the lordship after his father´s death in the Greyjoy Rebellion. At three and twenty, he was not especially famed as a commander, but had been sent anyway to represent the interests of the Lannister name.

Will found the captain, Ser Raynard Lannett warming his hands on a cookfire and approached him “Captain, the lords decide yet?”. The knight sighed, his jowly face looking tired “Redwyne just wants to be done, he doesn’t really care. He feels the Reach is too exposed with their fleet here. Lord Tymond wants to assault it “for the glory”, the rest pretty want to starve them, or attack. And the supply situation is shit, there is enough food for ten days and then we starve, there are not enough camp followers…we don’t even have timber for a palisade, seven hells! Damn island!”

In three days, the situation started to get better; supply shipments from Duskendale and the Crownlands started arriving, keeping the fleet afloat around the island and the siege force fed, and as timber arrived the construction of a siege tower started, along with a lightweight bridge, should the defenders raise the drawbridge.

15/03/300

 Enough ladders were ready to assault the gatehouse, so Paxter Redwyne had gathered the army for an attempt. Some twenty-three hundred men at arms were ready at dawn to strike and end this. Using mantlets and shields, they rushed to the gatehouse. All along the battlements arrows and quarrels were loosed at them. Three ladders would attack the gate, and another two the towers.

The moment they were in range, the screaming began. Most arrows bounced off Will´s armour, but not everyone had that advantage, and the Baratheon force was hitting every weak spot. By the moment the first ladder had reached the gate, more than a dozen men lay dead around them, a few were dying and a sizeable number of wounded was retreating. Westerlands bowmen tried to keep the defender´s heads down, with little effect. Behind a mantlet, Tymond Lannister signalled the men around him with a flourish of his sword “Over the top men! Lannisport!” rushing to the nearest ladder and climbing. Will and a part of the Lannister guards followed him, they were supposed to keep him alive for the House´s honour.

Climbing with falchion and shield was not what Will considered safe or easy, but he was in a rush to keep the lord from dying an embarrassing death, so he hurried upwards. A bolt struck his helm, almost sending him tumbling down, but he caught his balance and kept going. After what felt like hours, he grabbed a dark stone merlon, a dragon carved on it in low relief, and vaulted over the battlements. In front of him, Ser Raynard fought against a soldier armed with a poleaxe, and Lord Tymond duelled the knight they had seen the other time, the castellan. The captain called to him “Lanny! Help the lord!”. Will ran the distance between the battlements and the castellan and slashed at his face.

The castellan parried with a dagger on his left hand, directing the blow downwards. At the same time Tymond stabbed towards the castellan´s midsection, only to be met by his blade. The castellan fought defensively against Will and Tymond, using sword and dagger skilfully. Trying to use brute strength against the castellan, Will rushed him shield first, trying to catch him off-balance; the castellan moved aside and grabbed Will´s cloak forcefully. The momentum of his charge and the sudden pull left his legs vulnerable, and the castellan grappled him to the ground. A swift kick to the head dazed Will, but before the enemy could deliver a killing blow, Lord Tymond attacked, yelling “Bastard!”, a flurry of desperate blows sliding easily off the castellan´s garde. The enemy closed in on Tymond, wrapped his left arm around the lord´s sword arm, and pulled back, twisting the young lord´s arm until he dropped the sword. In pain, Tymond forgot he had a left arm and didn’t try to bash the castellan´s face in with his shield.

With the young lord still caught in his hold, the castellan moved to the edge of the battlements and threw him over the edge.

Will managed to stand up only to find himself against an older man, clearly a veteran. Clad in burgonet, brigandine and splint mail, he was more vulnerable that the castellan in plate armour, but Will was still surprised by a common grunt having that quality gear. The man swung a flanged mace at him with speed and precision, and checked his blows with a heater shield, the flaming heart of Stannis Baratheon getting slashed with each strike. A feint from the enemy soldier got Will hit in the leg; a little lower and his knee would have been smashed to bits. A man at arms in the colors of House Lydden bulled into the veteran, giving Will the chance to strike, smacking the veteran hard in the head.

Will heard the trumpets sounding the retreat, the attack had failed. Motivated by their enemy´s rout, the Baratheon soldiers pushed hard against them. The veteran smashed the Lydden man´s head in, leaving his face open; Will smashed the edge of his shield against the man´s nose. Hearing the bones crunch and blood coming out, Will took the chance to take the ladder down in relative safety. He saw a pair of his fellow household guards carrying the Lannister, with a third covering them with a pavise painted in Stannis Baratheon´s colours, gold with a red flaming heart. Will joined his fellows, adding his heater shield to the lord´s protection.

Tymond Lannister was barely conscious, from his bascinet incoherent sobbing and muttering could be heard. Will could see his left pauldron caved in, the arm hanging limp. The backplate in his cuirass was dented as well, and his left leg was clearly broken in several places, bending in unnatural ways; he had fallen on his side. As arrows and quarrels flew around them, the four guards carried the injured lord away from the gatehouse.  A longbow´s arrow caught one of the guards carrying Tymond just in his barbute´s eyehole, and he fell. Will rushed over to help the guard, but he was already dead. Taking over for the dead man, Will helped carry the lord back to the safe zone outside arrow range.

Behind a line of mantlets they laid down the lord, settling him on a stretcher. As two servants, from the indentured Rivermen, carried Tymond Lannister away, Will took of his helm and slumped down, resting his back against the mantlet. The other guardsmen imitated him, seating next to him. “Well that was a shite show.”  said one of them, in his exhausted state Will could barely recognize the man. 

 

05/05/300

It had been weeks since then, and every half-hearted attempt after the first had ended up with a few casualties and wounded and chipped away at their morale. Tymond Lannister had taken a fever after his injury, surviving by the Seven´s blessing alone. Weakened by wounds and illness, he was in no way to direct further assaults. And Redwyne wasn’t eager to lose his men against the castle, with Westermen becoming so reluctant to lead without their commander.

So, the siege had extended. From the first days of 300 AC´s third moon, to the fifth moon, the Westermen and Reachmen dug down around Dragonstone castle, their camp a constant mudslide, not helped by the constant rain, which chilled them to the bone when the autumn winds came afterwards. Soon it was impossible to stay dry outside the tents, even horses were slipping in their pens. A few broke legs and had to be put down. Roast horsemeat did little to raise the morale of the wet and shivering men at arms.

On the fifth day of the fifth moon, Tymond Lannister fell ill again, and from this fever he did not recover. The maesters burned his body, hoping to avoid any disease from spreading. So far, they at least had no plague to contend with. Will prayed to the Seven daily, for the enemy to surrender quickly, or at least for a shipment of whores to the camp. His prayers were not answered.

Just as Tymond Lannister burned, someone else had arrived. A Kingsguard knight, immediately rallying the men around him, restoring morale with his presence alone. His fame preceded him, and Will knew him on sight. It was the Gods damned Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell. And he had a plan.   


	2. Chapter 2

Ser Loras Tyrell had not brought more swords or ships, coming with a small personal retinue of companions in the livery of Highgarden on a single ship, accompanied by a pale haired rogue who claimed to be the new Lord Admiral. What he had brought was a wave of energy that swept the muddy, sad camp of Westermen and Reachers. With the easy confidence of a knight sure in his skill, and the leadership his brothers had undoubtedly taught him, Ser Loras had walked around the tents, speaking to the men digging trenches, tending to horses, cleaning mail and preparing food.

Will Lanny had not seen the Knight of Flowers at first, only sensed the subtle change in atmosphere. Suddenly every man and servant seemed determined again, ready to show those damn Stormlander exiles and islander sheep-shaggers the pride of the West, and that the Arbor had steel as much as they had wine. Ser Loras was clever in battle, it was known, his quick decision making in joust and melee was a part of his fame, and he was using that intelligence to rile the men, to get them angry.

By the time Tyrell had made it to the command tent in the middle of the mud that passed as their camp these days, he had a tail of three hundred men at arms and knights, all rearing for battle. In the tent, he conferred with their current leadership; Ser Alton Grapefield, a minor noble from the Arbor, previous master of five ships, currently two galleys, as Ser Rolland Storm´s defenders had captured one and sunk the other two, and a Lannister bastard called Ser Jason Hill, somehow related to the late Tymond.

Having already spoken with Paxter Redwyne, Ser Loras had dire news for Grapefield; ironborn raiders under their new king, Euron Greyjoy, had attacked, and the Reach was vulnerable. The Arbor was vulnerable. Grapefield had three young daughters and was clearly horrified at the idea they would end up as “salt wives” for some ironborn savage. The Arbor captain was on board with an all out assault the second Ser Loras had told his tale.

Ser Jason Hill and the rest of the Westermen officers, household knights and guard captains, were slower to accept the idea. Tymond Lannister´s injury had been proof enough of the steadfast resistance they had met, and they didn’t feel too compelled by the Reach being in peril. The Greyjoys were hated enough, some of the captains had lost kin on Baelon Greyjoy´s rebellion, so they wouldn’t be too averse to set sail against them. The prospect of smashing ineffectually against the fortified gatehouse did not thrill any of them, so Loras would have to win them over with a decent plan.

The young knight started his pitch “Everything I learned about siege craft, I learned in Highgarden, in Storm´s End. Storm´s End was my home for many a year when I squired for Lord Renly Baratheon, and it was a castle much stronger than Dragonstone. Dragonstone is not even as strong as my father´s Highgarden, with its moat and hedge maze that slow down attackers, allowing our brave bowmen to put them down as they trudge along it. The Targaryens built a strong fortress, yes, but nowhere near unbeatable. I brought a map of the layout, from Grand Maester Pycelle´s archives, dating back to the Dance of the Dragons. In that war, the maesters write that Dragonstone was won with treachery from inside and fell quickly. We don’t have that advantage, or dragons to land inside the castle, but its very design will be its undoing, I´m sure of it.”

He withdrew an aged parchment map from a leather case, and smoothed it over the war table, beside the map of the island the Lannisters had provided before. Will Lanny couldn’t read, but the illustration was superb, showing the castle from the heavens, with notes that surely detailed every building.

“Dragonstone was built for two things: to hold the island, and to house dragons. The walls are made in the style of Valyrian naval forts, according to Archmaester Tyran, who wrote about architecture in castle building, made to mitigate the damage caused by the scorpions the Freehold used on their ships before the fall, which were said to launch their iron bolts with magic and strange alchemist powders. That may have been useful against rival dragonlords hundreds of years ago, but today it means that the bastions can be climbed by skilled, agile men. Now, Dragonstone was made in the narrow valley between that ugly mountain, the Dragonmont, and that up jumped hill over there, which houses a spring that brings water to the castle. The dragons were big and big animals have big thirsts, so they probably needed it. The Dragonmont has thousands of caves of all sizes on its mountainside, some connect inside, some don’t, when the dragons died, the mountain became mostly useless. My childhood maester even thought it may explode and wreak havoc on the whole bay, destroying Driftmark and Claw Isle too.”

“So, a castle big enough to house dragons must have large, open wards, and large, open wards must have long walls around them. And it takes more men to man a long wall. Stannis could not have left more than a couple hundred soldiers, and I expect even less, perhaps a hundred and twenty, and that few can not man all three wards.”

He pointed to the gatehouse they had attacked before “Here, they can withstand the attack, we will just smash against them.” He pointed at the second entrance, a small gate accessed by a long and narrow flight of steps that led from the beach. They had tried overwhelming that narrow fjord before, only to lose ships and be repelled. “This one is even stronger, it is like trying to pass a horse through a barrel. Somehow, Stannis used that entrance when he captured the island, and the castle was held by four hundred men then. I will not speculate on that coward´s strategies, though. I know what we have to do.”

From the war table he picked up some wooden figures depicting soldiers and ships, the Lannister and Redwynefigures painted exquisitely, the Dragonstone ones painted with disdain. The Knight of Flowers placed the enemy forces around the castle. “They will gather at the place their scouts spot us. If we move in stealth, we can get the jump on them and overwhelm the gatehouse before they rush to meet us! We´ll beat them as they rush through these points:” he placed a Lannister soldier on each “the first bailey; the Sea Dragon tower and its covered bridge, which we´ll use to take the second gatehouse. Then we all converge in the middle bailey and slaughter the traitors as they move! The gate to the last bailey doesn’t have a gatehouse, only the wooden gate, so we´ll pull it off its hinges with horses. The traitors will die by droves in the open ground of the inner bailey!”

It seemed sound enough to Will Lanny. Striking hard, striking fast, using their own past strategy against them. So, he asked “How do we sneak up on them?” The young Kingsguard was ready to answer “With distraction, I will ride very slowly on my destrier, as a group of picked men crawls through the mud, covered in grass and reeds! They drag grappling hooks with them and strike the moment we get there!” Most captains agreed it was crazy enough to work, so they set out to gather men for the job. Will was no climber, so he instead looked for a Redwyne sailor he had played cards with sometimes, “Hands” Flowers, a wiry, lean man who could reach the crows nest on any galley or cog in instants, moving like a monkey from the Summer Isles.

“Hey Hands, Knight of Flowers´s putting up a team to take this fucking fortress once and for all, you want in on that? I´ll recommend you.” “Aye, anythin´s better than sittin on me fuckin thumbs, pal. Where´s them´s boys?” “By the command tent, Ser Loras will explain to the men. Bring your sailor mates along, too, maybe they can join.” With a couple more sailors in tail, Will joined the crowd gathering outside the command tent. “We are attacking those traitors to the realm. On the trumpet, rush over with mantlets and ladders! I want everyone fully armoured in the hour! Climbers, on me!”

As the men left to buckle on breastplates and don helms, Ser Loras added “And do it quietly, we must be as silent as the Smith´s farts!” The laughter defeated the purpose a bit, but the men were discrete afterwards.

Will joined Ser Loras´ honour guard, a group of ten heavily armoured knights, half of them Tyrell men, half Lannisters. He greeted his fellows with a few dirty jokes and armoured up with them. On a patch of land outside the camp, Will saw the climbers equip themselves; wearing gambesons and leather arming caps, they eschewed plate or mail in favour of stealth and silence. The men showered each other with buckets of mud and tied pieces of turf on their backs, arms, legs and head. While crawling among the ground, they would be difficult to spot on the low light of dusk, which quickly approached. Every man had a coil of rope tied around their chest, the grappling hook tucked into the turf so as not to scrape themselves. Armed with boarding axes and maces, they looked fierce and savage, like men out of old wives’ tales on wildlings from beyond the Wall.

As the golden hour of dusk turned grey, Ser Loras started riding forward, his horse walking slow, to keep the attention of the defenders on him. A white knight with a white cloak on a white horse, he would have been visible on a moonless night. Ser Loras closed his armet´s visor as they neared the gatehouse and raised a gauntlet, speaking loud and clear “Tell your lord that I will fight him in single combat for the surrender of the castle. He can even name a champion, if he is afraid of the thorns on this flower!” The ten around Loras cheered at the insult.

As the climbers inched towards the walls, the men on the gatehouse replied “We´ll pass on your message, you fucking degenerate!” The lookouts laughed and there were muffled sounds of more joking. The Knight of Flowers was unimpressed and waited for word with the Bastard of Nightsong. It was a gamble; Storm might bring enough men to foil the attack, or not even show himself at all.

As the climbers reached their position, a man who clearly wasn’t Ser Rolland answered, “His Lordship asks that you kindly fuck off, before we send you to Seven Hells to meet Renly again.” Will saw the Kingsguard tense ever so slightly at the mention of the Baratheon pretender. “So be it!” replied Loras, after a few seconds of wait. With a hand signal, a Tyrell knight brought a trumpet to his lips, playing the few notes associated with House Tyrell, used with a full array of instruments when playing “A Golden Rose”.

From the wet grass emerged the climbers, roaring, securing their hooks in seconds, clambering up the walls in instants. Behind them, the men who were in fighting shape rushed, adding their yells to the battle cry. A bell rang on the gatehouse; the castle was on alert. A few ladders arrived, and the gatehouse was overwhelmed, as he reached the top of the wall Will could see the corpses of seven enemy men strewn around, and three of their own. He was glad Hands wasn’t among them, but he had no time to find his friend, they had to open up the gate for the rest of the men to go through.

A Tyrell man at arms was joined by a Westerman knight with the sigil of Kayce on his shield on the mechanism that opened the porticulis as two Redwyne marines unbarred the gate. A stream of men ran through…only to fall to their deaths as the drawbridge to the next gate collapsed; it had been sabotaged by the defenders! Ser Loras reacted quickly and ordered the ladders to be used to bridge the gap between gates, and brave knights started to walk over even before boards were placed between the ladder rungs.

They still had speed on their side, thought Will as he crossed over. The second gate fell, dead men on either side. Ser Loras was now covered in the blood of other men, his Morningstar crimson, his enamelled white plate besmirched. A defender in a burgonet attacked swiftly before the Kingsguard could lift his shield, smashing a heavy mace on the young knight´s shoulder. Ser Loras did not suffer the injury lightly and slayed the man.

On the first bailey, Will finally had an opponent, a green boy with the sigil of House Velaryon on his brigandine. Before the boy could muster his defence, Will whacked him in the head with his poleaxe, hitting him again on the ground. Was the boy dead? He didn’t know, he didn’t care. He ran, he ran with the knights, he ran among the men caught up by crossbow bolts loosed from the walls they meant to take. There seemed to be less men than they had thought, so how could they fire so quickly?

A bolt smacked him on the head, making him stumble to the ground. The wild run Ser Loras had led them on had brought them up the wall overlooking the sea to the west, dominated by Sea Dragon Tower. Apartments for the castle´s maester were said to be there, on that tower crowned by a large gargoyle shaped like a dragon. It was smaller than Will had thought it would be, but he had no time for disappointment.

The strong tower was connected to the second bailey by a covered bridge, spanning dozens of meters. The bridge was a mighty defence, but if taken, gave them access to the bailey directly, and a way to let the army keep pouring in. Sea Dragon Tower was breached with axes its few guards overwhelmed by the attackers. Ser Loras took a blow in the knee from a poleaxe, but he limped as fast as a man ran, and he kept leading them onwards.

Will felt concern grow, however, as he stumbled over the bodies of his fellow Westermen to get to the covered bridge. They were dying like flies, could they still keep up with this plan? Would it not be better to secure the castle areas they held before continuing? Many weren’t dead, but wounded, and a maester could still save them…though most would probably not have the chance to get medical attention anyway.

On the gate leading to the bridge he saw the kid he had befriended, Tybalt, one time sworn to a knight in service to the Greenfields. His shield was smashes to splinters, his face was covered in blood, he was missing one eye. “I´m not ready!” he whimpered “I´m not ready, mother!” Will held his hand as he passed away, blood pouring out from a cut in his leg. The boy was terrified. Will did not know what to tell him, he just could not leave him to die alone. As the battle raged around them, Will wept for a boy he had barely known, even as the blood of a boy the same age dried on his poleaxe´s blade.

Asking the Seven to rest his soul, Will stood up and was carried away in the human tide that tried to cross the bridge. He forced his way to the front, he had to keep moving forward. Corpses littered the ground, all of them Westermen. Crossbow bolts had punched through the mail and gambesons of the soldiers, through the red padded jacks of Lannister levies. A few were not corpses, but men injured on spike traps. A sabaton did little to stop a spike from going through the unprotected sole of a man´s boot, and the defenders had been devious when placing their traps.

On the forefront, the Knight of Flowers´ beautiful enamelled armour was about as red as old Lord Tywin´s, bathed in Baratheon blood. Loras had ditched his white shield after it had become unusable and picked up a guisarme from a fallen man at arms, using it to deadly effect. As Will made his way to the commander, he saw a crossbowman take aim and loose a quarrel at Ser Loras. The point must have been a bodkin, as the quarrel tore through the Kingsguard´s cuirass, embedding itself in his chest. Will could hear Loras howl in pain as he snapped the bolt to keep fighting, though he was now slower, and with every strike he would yell, half in anger, half in pain.

Eventually they broke through the Baratheon defences, a shield wall and crossbows on a narrow space, and they were out in the open again. The human wave split up, half rushing the gate between them and the rest of their allies, and the other half engaging the enemy in a furious melee.

An old man rushed Will with a bec-de-corbin, a two-handed spiked war hammer. Polearms clashed, less than a knightly duel of swords, it was a commoner´s quarterstaff brawl. Will was slower, and got a smack on the chest, which took his breath away. But the greybeard had overswung, and Will had a chance to go for the kill. With a swift motion, he swept the man´s leg under him, took him down, and pummelled his helm a few times. The man was dead, his blood pooling in the ground.

Soon the door was unblocked, and the hundreds of men behind joined the melee. It was a bloodbath. In the bailey´s mud, as the world around them grew dark and the sun finally set, visibility was poor. Men were in a state of bloodlust and fought against any perceived enemy. The torches brought only increased the confusion. Will saw a Redwyne marine slash a Banefort levy´s throat, a Kayce man at arms smash a Tyrell knight´s head in. They were killing each other!

But then Loras Tyrell yelled above the noise of killing and dying “The courtyard is clear! No more enemies! Bring the horses, we take the last gate!” The infighting stopped. Before anyone could feel shame, a team of huge draft horses had been led to the yard, out of range from archers on the wall. Four chains would be affixed to the gate, to rip it apart. Ser Loras pulled on himself, followed by Will and two brave knights, Westermen both. They sprinted through a hail of arrows and stones, crossbow bolts and javelins. After the mad dash, they managed to secure the chains on the gate. The horses started to pull. Will heard a bubbling sound, a metallic clang, the sound of liquid being poured. He heard Ser Loras and the knights screaming. And then he felt it. It was boiling oil.   


	3. Chapter 3

Will awoke in a tent reeking of rot and shit, among dozens of men, some sleeping, some squirming, some yelling in agony, some weeping. More prayed to the gods, imploring the Blacksmith for strength, the Warrior for courage, the Maiden to see their love again…and most of all the Mother, for mercy, for their own mothers, and a kind hand to hold their own as they passed away. Was Will in the same state as those men? Would he despair and turn to the gods?

He could move his head and look with both eyes. That was good. His hearing seemed normal, if a bit muffled, he could hear without that whirring sound those men who had fought in the Blackwater described after the Imp´s Fire. It was probably bandaging around his head that interfered with his hearing. Next, he tried to move his legs; the right leg moved normally, though he felt his head light, the time between thought and movement slow. Had he been drugged?

Will knew common men at arms were hardly ever considered for milk of the poppy when treated by maesters, so it probably was a cheaper concoction. The left leg would not bend, it was in a cast. He hoped it would heal correctly, he wasn’t keen on living his life limping on a crutch. Next, he looked to his hands and arms; his right hand had two broken fingers bandaged and splinted, his gauntlet and vambrace removed. If the medics had stolen his armour, he would heal fast out of spite just to break their thieving faces, he thought, until he saw his armour packed on a small crate beside him. It looked dented and damaged, and he didn’t remember taking that many hits in battle.

His left hand was unarmoured as well, covered in some sort of poultice which felt cool and minty to the touch. He brought the hand closer and saw the burns. The hand was a mass of purplish scar tissue. He could see the outline of his gauntlet along the fingers and back of the hand, the burns had been caused by the metal burning through the glove underneath. Luckily his gambeson had resisted the heat better, and most of his forearm had smaller red burns. It didn’t look infected, but it still sickened him to look at the burns. Would he be able to resist the pain on his own? Will was not afraid of dying in battle, but the thought of constant searing pain gave him pause. And the fear that he would become dependent on maester´s drugs to stave off the pain flared up in his mind.

He started to panic, feel afraid of his powerlessness. He tried to get up, to run off, go away, go anywhere. But neither hand could carry his weight effectively, and he slammed back on the stretcher. He didn’t want to catch a fever in the field hospital, they could be deadly. Or catch a plague. He needed to go away…and then there was a hand on his chest, holding him down steadily.

“You have to let me go, I can not stay here!” he implored of the maester. “Lad, you have a broken leg. And no arm that can hold the crutch. As much as I would like to give that stretcher to some other poor sod in need, you need to recover and vacate it on your own feet. At least a day, lad.” Will felt the dread die down, and composed himself to speak “Maester, did we win? Is the castle ours?” The balding man with a broken nose sighed and replied, “Aye, but half of the men are dead or dying. Another hundred can still be saved, some five score are wounded but can move on their own. All that, to claim a castle and a hundred corpses? There wasn’t even treasure inside, just dust. They took even ledgers and library tomes!”

“What of Ser Loras? Did he lead that search?” he asked. The maester replied “Have you looked at your hand? The Knight of Flowers was caught in the oil too. His maester is tending to him. The oil didn’t burn him to death, but the maester must also wrestle with an infected quarrel in his chest, multiple mace wounds and what looks like a nasty fever. If he survives his maester is as good as nominated for Archmaester.”

“But who is searching? That admiral?” “Oh no, that lad bailed, the second Ser Loras was injured he was sprinting back to ship…I know not if out of cowardice or duty. He left two days ago, bound for King´s Landing. The one leading is a Westerman, a bastard knight. He reported empty handed to Ser Loras last time he was conscious, a day ago, that there were no dragon eggs, no gold or gemstones, no relics that could be sold to collectors in the Free Cities, and no enemy commander. Another bastard…you think they had some deal? They do say that bastards are not trustworthy…”

Will interrupted him “Ser Jason Hill is a capable man, maester, and a knight, so show some respect.” The maester did not reply at once, just staring at him in curiosity. “Whatever, I´ll keep my opinions to myself, Westerman. As per Ser Loras Tyrell´s last command, all men not in risk of dying are to board the Redwyne fleet the moment the knight is back in health, and if it takes long, to follow Lord Redwyne instead, in campaign against the ironmen. A servant shall bring you bread and porridge three times a day, there is a chamber pot beside you, shared with that man over there. If you see any man die, let the servants know.”  

With that, the maester left, rushing towards a knight who begged for water. In minutes, the knight was dead, and the Riverlands servants carried his body away. A new patient was brought to the stretcher the knight had used. Will slept as he let the drugs carry him away. He awoke at the hour of the wolf, a tremendous urge to piss waking him immediately. Dragging himself to the edge of the bed, he undid his breeches with the fingers he could still use on his right hand and relieved himself. He felt a certain pride at not missing the chamber pot.

Pulling up his trousers, he found a small piece of bread had been left by his armpit; somebody had probably swiped the porridge as he slept. He gnawed at the bread, thankfully it had no mould. A drink of water would have been good with it, but he didn’t see anyone to ask for water. Until he saw a servant, walking slowly among the sleeping sick. He made no sound as he stalked forward. Was that really a servant?

Will felt a chill run down his spine as he watched the shadowy figure get closer. It was just a servant, it had to be, didn’t it? Just a servant! He stayed still, trying to look asleep. He held the thin blanket he had been provided in a childish attempt to safety. The servant walked past him, there was a length of cloth in one hand, and a short rope on the other. Will followed him with his gaze, dreading what his instinct told him would come.

The servant found a knight, a Westerman who had been with Lord Tywin the entire way. A landed knight with very little power, he had brought perhaps three men to the war. The servant placed the cloth along the knight´s mouth, muffling his screams, and wrapped the rope around his neck. A mere gurgle could be heard as the knight choked to death. In the silence of night, Will heard the servant whispering “That was for Pate´s mother.” The servant spat on the dead knight and moved on.

For about an hour, the man slowly approached six more men, murdering them in their sleep. Will could hear him approach, get closer with every step, until he heard a soldier stumble with a pot somewhere near the field hospital. Instants later, the soldier had brought a torch with him, lighting up the big tent. “Must´ve been tha wint” said the soldier in a thick backwoods accent. The servant had not been caught, and Will could not sleep anymore.

With dawn came relief, the “servant” wouldn’t be able to murder anyone in daylight. Another servant, much shorter than the silhouette from last night, brought him food and water. He gorged on the food and almost choked on the water, the fear of being assassinated in his sleep surely opened his appetite. He thanked the servant profusely, and asked him to call a maester, to say he wanted to try and use the crutch. Soon a different maester arrived from the previous, bastard-disliking maester. This one was tall and spindly, with a pinched face like he had just smelled a nasty fart.

“The lad said you wanted to try and get up?” “Aye, maester, I must try.” The maester brought out a long stick connected to a perpendicular plank, covered in bandages. Measuring quickly against his body, the maester cut off a part of the longer stick with a small saw, adjusting it to his size. He wrapped some more bandage around the bottom tip, to give it some traction.

“I´ll put more poultice on the hand and cover it, then you may attempt to stand.” While not particularly friendly, this maester at least didn’t act like he had been torn from a feast to inspect a dog´s corpse. His arms felt stronger, letting him heave his weight around, dangling his legs from the stretcher. The maester handed him the crutch, and he made his first attempt to stand. It made him nauseous, and he was hit by vertigo, so he sat back down. The maester didn’t seem disappointed by his failure.

But he could not just stop trying. There was a murderer on the loose, and he couldn’t stay among the sick. If the servant didn’t kill him, a fever would, or a cough or a chill. He needed to get to his own tent, to have friendly faces around him, feel the certainty of fellow men at arms keeping watch. To have a dagger under his pillow. To have some power over his own destiny, by the Gods!

So, he tried, and tried again. And again. And again. Until he stood shakily. He took a step, limping onwards. Then another. And a third. “I´m fucking limping, maester!” The maester allowed himself a small smile. “I´ll have a servant to carry your things on the way to your tent. The survivors of your guard set up in the castle, in the middle bailey.” He turned over towards a young, lithe indentured servant “Hey, you! Pick up that box and follow this lad!” The young man took up the box, his gaze crossing with Will´s. He felt a chill run down his spine. Was this the servant in the dark?

“Let´s go, Ser Crutch.” The servant led the way, as he hopped a few feet behind. Outside the field hospital, the camp had changed. The hospital itself had been expanded twofold, the maesters´ tents moved to the sides. Most other tents had been removed, as had the palisade. He wondered for a moment where all that boat carried wood had gone, and then he knew; a huge pit had been dug, to burn the bodies of the dead. The palisade had been the firewood. Some of the logs had been too damp and he could still see them lying around.

They walked past the corpse pit towards the castle, getting to the gatehouse and the drawbridge. More planks too damp to be firewood had been used to make the makeshift bridge stronger, and they could cross safely. In hindsight he was amazed anyone had crossed at all, most of all the draft horses. Inside the castle he could see the fallout of the assault; burn marks on walls, doors hacked to splinters, the cobblestones of the bailey slick with mud. Occupying the outer bailey were about a hundred Arbor marines and half as many from the Westlands, many of them a loud noise away from throwing down spear and shield and becoming broken men.

The middle bailey was occupied by Westermen only, arrayed along the wall and around a cistern, fed by an aqueduct connecting the castle to a mountain spring. He almost wept when he saw the muddy, wet tent bearing the colours of House Lannister, hurrying along hopping towards his fellows.

He found the tent half empty. Half of the men had died in the assault. He felt disrespectful with his relief overpowering his grief at losing comrades, but he just knew he would sleep safely! The servant left his box of gear by a cot, giving him another mysterious gaze. Will did not like that man, neither his insolence as a servant or the danger of him being the murderer.

“Is the captain alive?” he asked Jabs, who as always was shadow boxing around the tent. “Old goatfucker got him, stabbed him in the eye with a dagger” replied Jabs, not even stopping his combinations of jabs, haymakers and uppercuts. “Then who´s the captain now?” “I guess its Addam, mate. What you need him for?” “One of the servants from the Riverlands was killing the wounded last night, scared the fuckin´ shit out of me before a guard stumbled around. Everyone should know, be on their guard.” “Fuck mate, that´s rough. First you get all fucked over and then some fish boy tries ta slit yer throat? S´bad luck, mate.” “Yeah, man. He used a rope to make it seemed they had died on their own, I guess. So, where´s Addam, I´m going to hop over and tell him.”

Jabs took a moment to consider, then replied “We could put you on a mule, mate. Easier than limping. He´s at that keep, the one with all that echo.” “I didn’t know you had words that clever, Jabs. I know where to go, I think. I´ll take the mule, aye.” A few moments later, he crossed in to the inner bailey, riding an ugly donkey Jabs insisted was a mule. Only a Lannisport lad who had never been to the country would ever confuse a donkey and a mule! He took the mule on the slope towards the inner bailey.

The inner bailey was dominated by four main buildings; the hall, the sept, the walls of Aegon´s garden, and most imposing, the Stone Drum, a strong keep made of various towers around a central round tower. It was probably the most impressive keep he had seen apart from the Red Keep; Casterly Rock was built into the mountain, Riverrun had been besieged by Ser Jaime´s army, not Lord Tywin´s, Harrenhal didn’t really count as a castle, more like some sort of man-made mountain.

The towers on the Stone Drum were crowned by gargoyles in the shape of dragons perched at the peaks, and a huge, long dragon had been carved around the round tower, surrounding it, its wings seamlessly blending with roofs, its mighty head reaching between the battlements on top. By that keep itself he would have believed the legend of Dragonstone being made up of dragons more than towers and keeps, but the hall had an even more impressive dragon carved on top of it, roaring silently, its tail just grazing the flying buttresses that distributed the hall´s weight, and allowed the stained-glass windows to be larger.

The dragon on top of the hall had to be some thirty meters from head to tail, and the hall extended into the mountain itself, whatever throne Stannis had sat on deep inside. Will led the donkey past a well and the sept came into view, a fine building in the same style as the hall, albeit only decorated with seven small dragons on the roof instead of a massive one. It looked slightly neglected, presumably due to Stannis Baratheon´s red witch and her heretic followers.

As he made it to the Stone Drum, he saw a door open with some of the officers gathered there. Dismounting, he hopped over to the chamber. “Will, you´re alive!” said Addam when he saw him “Aye, I thought I was done for when they dropped the burning oil on us. Who´s still around, how goes the campaign?”

“Its us in this chamber, and Ser Loras from his bedside, his deathbed if you ask me. We lost too many men on the assault, many knights and men at arms…our army has a lower quality than before. And the servants, the gods damned servants…we don’t outnumber them by that much anymore. Some of the officers think we should send a number of them back or put them to death or something. They are mostly old and frail, but we took a few useful men too, and they hate us. The blacksmiths, the stablehands…”

“That´s what I´m here for. One of them is already murdering the wounded, I saw him kill a knight and six other men last night. We need to send men with torches and swords, and keep our eyes open, Addam. We need to catch and hang that fishfucker, mate.” Addam looked uneasy at the news “Fuck, that will be hell for morale. We´ve already had six deserters vanish to the hills, the men expected a glorious victory after Ser Loras arrived, not half of us dying for an empty castle. We didn’t even secure good alcohol, by the Stranger! Not even some particularly good salted pork!” He clearly shared the troops disillusionment.

“So how did the Bastard of Nightsong escape?” “That galley they captured was missing when we secured the other entrance. He could be halfway to Braavos by now, or hiding in Driftmark or Claw Isle, but this group of officers says we let him. Our mission is accomplished, the Queen can get off our ass.”

“But isn’t Ser Loras taking us to fight the ironmen?” “Redwyne has a ton of ships, he could even give us a lift when the squids are dealt with. Some of the marines say that Euron Greyjoy is an insane idiot, a good pirate but still insane, they say he only knows how to command his own ship. And Lord Redwyne helped destroy their navy before, I trust him at sea.” “I wish I shared your enthusiasm, mate, I´m not feeling too eager to fight more fanatics so soon.” “Cheer up mate, the squids are weak, and it is faster than walking back to the Westerlands.” “Mother save us…as long as my leg heals, why not.”

“Lads! Ser Loras is awake!” yelled a knight from the inside, a cluster of grapes in his dark blue tunic. Will hopped over two rooms further, to a warm room, sparsely furnished, that had a pungent smell of rot, vomit, piss and nightsoil. On the bed rested Ser Loras Tyrell, dressed only in his smallclothes, covered in sweat and bandages. One of his eyes was open, the other swollen in a mass of burn scars, the skin broken at some spots, oozing pus.

The Knight of Flowers´ long brown curls had been cut short, so the maester could treat the bruises that covered his face, at least the part with no burns. Though he had to give the young knight some credit, his burn scars were somehow dignified, unlike the Hound´s. While his face had fared better, his body was a wreck; his knee was swollen unto a ball of bruised flesh, the burning oil had blackened his back and right arm. Will felt he should thank the gods again for not taking the brunt of the oil attack.

A compress covered his shoulder, where the crossbow bolt had infected. It seemed the maester had needed to cut off bits of flesh that had rotted away. Ser Loras wheezed as he tried to speak, his throat hoarse “I don’t think I can lead the fight against Greyjoy, sers. Please, you have to save the Reach. Euron Greyjoy is a heathen, a madman. Save my home, sers. Save Oldtown. I don’t command you to do so in the name of your King, I ask you as a man who fears for the life of his brother.” A cough interrupted him, and he collapsed afterwards, losing conscience again.

“I´ll go tell Lord Redwyne, we should leave before the week is over. Our galleys are fast, we can catch them before they reach Oldtown and the Mander” said Ser Alton Grapefield, knight of the Arbor, a fierce determination in his eyes. Ser Jason Hill replied to him “We´ll pick the men to garrison Dragonstone, to stay with Ser Loras, and deal with the servants. I´ll let Lord Redwyne know when we are ready. It looks like we are sailing against Greyjoy, then.”    


End file.
